


Phantom Itch

by ladyarcherfan3



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Denial, F/F, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Nightmares, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 19:24:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5597878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyarcherfan3/pseuds/ladyarcherfan3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes her left palm itched when she drove.  Her left wrist ached when she woke up.  It was like that with missing the Fool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phantom Itch

“ Phantom Itch” 

 

Furiosa nodded to the Fool - Max, his name was Max - and he faded into the crowd.  She felt a pang of loss; he was the reason she and the women were alive several times over, she was only standing because of him and his blood.  But the loss and gratitude was overwhelmed by the simple fact that she was barely standing, and there were so many things to think about suddenly.  There was the crush of the Wretched, and any remaining War Boys who would still likely be loyal to Joe to deal with.  She couldn’t spare the energy or time to think about the Fool, simply because she was  _ barely standing _ .

 

They worked their way through the Citadel, Furiosa standing strong and solid when they were challenged, the women’s voices rising clear and strong, proclaiming variations of Angharad’s battlecry -  _ We Are Not Things.   _ She managed to stay upright and coherent by sheer stubbornness and more often than not someone’s shoulder under her arm.  Capable passed her to Dag who passed her to Toast who passed her to Cheedo who passed her to Saffi… and then she was guided down onto a soft surface.  Some part of her brain recognized it as a bed before darkness claimed her.

 

Seven thousand days as a captive, slave, warrior, imperator had made honed her into a weapon, a machine without the need for indulgences. She had to keep moving, keep the other women moving and safe.  They all managed through the fever that slowed Furiosa’s recovery.  They pushed through the unrest and hard decisions needed to establish new order in the Citadel. When the remainder of the War Party made it around the mountains, the women met them with snipers and withheld water until the cars and survivors staggered back to Gastown and Bullet Farm to lick their wounds and wait for a treaty. 

 

There was always so much to do, just to survive, to make something new and solid and better than what Joe had. She didn't have time to wonder or wish for something she couldn't have. 

 

But sometimes her left palm itched when she drove.  Her left wrist ached when she woke up.  It was like that with missing the Fool.

 

It was never big moments.  It never slowed her down.  But when her rifle clicked on empty, there was a heartbeat where she expected him to hand her another clip; but it was Capable who did.  She had to remind herself that she didn’t need to tell the stone wall not to breathe.  When she glanced to the passenger seat in the new rig, it was Toast who responded and took the wheel when she asked.  

 

Her hand hurt sometimes, but her prosthesis did it’s job, and was sometimes better than flesh and bone.  Yet she missed it sometimes.  

 

Toast became her second in command, picking up driving and shooting and battle tactics like she was born for it.  Capable’s compassion spread like warm waves out from her and around the entire citadel, and as often as it grated, Furiosa couldn’t deny that she needed it sometimes.  When she needed silence, she found that Dag’s garden was the best place for it; Cheedo was the opposite, filling the need for verbal complaints that didn’t need solving.  Saffi and Miriam and the Milking Mothers - now just the Mothers - offered council from anything from details of inter Citadel politics to Vuvalini traditions.     

 

She didn’t have time to miss the Fool.  At least when she was awake.  Her dreams were another matter. 

 

Sometimes it was just them driving, the Rig roaring across the sand, all five of the young women in the back seat, sleeping.  They were all relaxed, there was no pursuit.  Other times it was just the two of them, silence and peace and engine.  Those were the good dreams, the ones she woke the most rested from.  But more often than not, the dreams were darker. 

 

The shotgun went off when she pulled the trigger, and his face behind the muzzle disappeared into a bloody pulp.  Or he didn’t twist just enough that the handgun’s bullet didn’t ricochet off the Rig’s side, but instead lodged in his head.  She and the women made it to the canyon, but the deal fell through.  With no one to drive the Rig, the War Party caught up.  Joe took the women back, took her and tortured and killed her as a statement.  

 

Or the images would bring her to the race back to the Citadel.  She wouldn’t catch him as he fell. Or her prosthesis would give out, or rip off entirely and he’d fall, crushed under the Rig’s wheels.  So she’d still get stabbed, still fight her way to the Gigahorse, still rip Joe’s face off.  But then she’d fall, dragged down by her prosthesis, or just fall out of fatigue and pain.  And the women would make it back to the Citadel, because they had Miriam and Saffi and their own strength, but the Gatekeepers and the crowd didn’t know them and wouldn’t let them up, and they were ripped off the Gigahorse and shredded…

 

Those were the worst dreams.  She’d wake, drenched in sweat, her lungs and ribs aching from the wounds, both with remembered pain and the lingering hurt.  After those dreams, sleep didn’t come easily for some time.  

 

But there were other dreams. Dreams that started out with just warmth and softness and the gentle hum of an engine.  And then she opens her eyes and sees his grey blue eyes staring back at her; his hands gently cradling her head.  That was all memory.  But the dream didn’t stop there.  The gentleness of his rough hands didn’t stay at the back of her head. His fingers stroked over her face, down her arms, her sides.  The warm width of his arms and shoulders held her and made her feel safe, and warmth flooded her.  She’d find out just how plush and warm his lips were against her mouth, over her heart, and lower and lower...

 

She woke those nights with her thighs pressed together, hips twitching.  Sleep eluded her the rest of those nights, too, filled with frustration and something like guilt as she recalled other, actual memories.  Memories of nights and stolen moments with Valkyrie.  

 

After one such night, she sought out Saffi.  Feeling a bit like a girl before her initiation, she tried to find the words to explain how she’d always had a wordless connection with Val, since they’d been children.  How they’d always understood each other’s minds, even when they fought.  How they’d been each other’s first choice for everything, from playmates, to partners during bike and rifle training, to their first kisses and more.  How they had recognized each other after seven thousand days and thousands of hurts.  Yet, she had felt a connection so similar, but blindingly faster, with Max, that she didn’t know what to call it.  

 

Saffi had called her and Val soul sisters, that they had always been such.  She talked about how she and Mary Jo Bassa had been soul sisters, how she had never given up hope of seeing her again, even though her spirit knew she was gone.  She told Furiosa about how soul mates could mean so many things -  the deep connection of thoughts and feelings and actions.  Soul sister, soul mates, best and rarest friends, all were the same and yet different for each person.  Souls were solid and full on their own, but sometimes souls came together, fitting together to create another, whole and real life made of two. It wasn’t something that came to everyone, and some people found it more than once in a lifetime.  Saffi felt that is what had happened for Furiosa and Val and then Max.  

 

The knowledge didn’t stop the dreams, but it eased the unrest and guilt.  She saw Valkyrie as much as she saw Max.  The Citadel groaned through growing pains as it changed under the drive and guidance of the women and Furiosa’s skill.  People wandered in and out of the surrounding land, looking for trade, seeking refugee, trying weak points.  As each new person appeared, she couldn’t help looking for a familiar blue grey gaze, but she never saw it. 

 

She could function without her arm, could thrive even without it.  She had her own strength and steady soul of her own. 

  
It didn’t stop the phantom itch, though.       

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are mine, as I am a fool without a beta.


End file.
